<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Fester by hunnitea</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23449825">Fester</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunnitea/pseuds/hunnitea'>hunnitea</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hetalia: Axis Powers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Dissociation, Eye Gouging, Eye Trauma, France Being a Jerk (Hetalia), M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 14:13:37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,048</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23449825</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunnitea/pseuds/hunnitea</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“All he wanted was for everything to stop, if just for a second. He wanted time to catch up, let himself adjust to changes. His head ached as he lay himself down in his bed, and the room spun even when he shut his eyes.”</p><p>I might make a sequel, but I'm not really sure.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>England/Russia (Hetalia)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fester</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Arthur needs a hug.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was something wrong with Arthur. He was different now; quieter, darker. He carried an aura around him, one that whispered danger. It wasn't a reckless danger, no; it was merely a persistent, subtle knowledge that he could hurt you. His eyes were dull, lacking light, and staring into them made everything disappear. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, having no sense of time, snapping out of a daze weary and confused.</p><p>Yet all Ivan would do is stare.</p><p>He'd stare forever into those lifeless eyes, almost mirroring the haunting vacancy. Ivan was dangerous, as everybody knew, but Arthur? No, he was merely a grumpy Englishman with no talent for cooking, he was simply the butt of everyone's jokes. Nobody liked Arthur, not sincerely.</p><p>Arthur knew. He knew people didn't like him, and he didn't like them in return. He was bitter, like unrequited love, and incredibly poisonous. </p><p>That's why people don't stay around me, he'd tell himself.</p><p>As days grew weary and lost amidst the sea of other days just like the one before, Ivan would spend his time gazing into Arthur's eyes despite the lack of light. They didn't glimmer like emeralds anymore, didn't light up like fresh dewy droplets of rain on a spring leaf; no, not anymore. Even Ivan's eyes had those times where they shone with bright, wonderful swathes of lilac. </p><p>Arthur missed his old eyes sometimes, when he'd stare into the mirror in his dimly lit bathroom. He looked tired, dark bags under his eyes contrasting to his sickly pale skin. His blond hair was darker, messier if that was possible, coarse to touch with his own skeletal fingers. He remembers with a hollow smile at how soft his lips used to be, how he used to adore the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. Now his lips are chapped and his freckles have faded.</p><p>He didn't know why he felt so empty, so drained of all life, like a wilting rose pleading for decay to hurry up and whisk it away so it could suffer no longer.</p><p>All he wanted was for everything to stop, if just for a second. He wanted time to catch up, let himself adjust to changes. His head ached as he lay himself down in his bed, and the room spun even when he shut his eyes.</p><p>The morning wasn't much better, despite how the dizziness had gone away. He was slower, closely examining his movements that day. He took longer to brush his teeth, his hair, to eat, to dress. He ended up being fifteen minutes late to the meeting, not that he particularly minded anymore. His behaviour was so uncharacteristic that he was stopped multiple times just so he could nod dumbly when he was asked if he was alright.</p><p>Ivan, however, didn't ask such things, nor did he attempt to speak to Arthur at all. Once again, he simply observed him. He stared with eager, childlike enthusiasm at how Arthur would idly trace the rim of his teacup with his index finger, not bothering to listen to Alfred's obnoxious voice. It was so unlike him. He did not startle when Ludwig slammed his large hands down on the table to gain attention. He did not wince when Francis seductively draped an arm over his narrow shoulders.</p><p>It was like he was completely gone.</p><p>Ivan continued to watch him throughout the duration of the meeting, nothing particularly interesting occurring. At least, not until the end of the meeting.</p><p>Francis, having been nitpick-y about Arthur's appearance since he was born, decided another jab wouldn't hurt. A fleeting comment about how Arthur had “let himself go”, how he should “take more care into what he looked like”. Francis said if he did that more, people would like him.</p><p>With that, Arthur abruptly stood, without a single flicker of emotion on his face. He turned, looked up at Francis through oddly dark lashes, and gently placed a soft hand on his cheek. Francis flinched at the gesture, cocking a brow, but remained still after the initial shock. Slowly, slowly, slowly, Arthur moved his hand up so his thumb could caress Francis' lower lashline. The room was still loud, everyone else chattering amongst themselves. Ivan stared at Arthur and Francis, however, and saw what happened next.</p><p>Arthur slid his hand a little further upwards, cradling the other side of Francis' face with his other hand, and sunk his thumb into his eye. Francis cried out, grabbing frantically at Arthur's frail wrist. Despite his attempts, Arthur resisted and continued to press his thumb into Francis' skull, to the point where blood began to trickle down the Frenchman's classically handsome face. At this point, the entire room was silent save for Francis' pained shrieking and the sickening squelching of Arthur's finger into his eye. Once the Englishman was satisfied with how deep his thumb was, he worked his index and middle fingers inside, grasping the eye firmly in its socket.</p><p>With a fascinated smile, he yanked his arm back, pulling the eye out completely.</p><p>Francis screamed and screamed, both hands clawing at his own face. He fell to his knees, sobbing relentlessly. Arthur continued to examine the eye he held in his palm, ignoring the various shouts from everyone else.</p><p>“What the fuck was that?! Arthur, what the fuck did you do?!” Alfred yelled, rushing over to Francis' aid.</p><p>The room was in utter chaos, and Arthur felt more alive than he had in years. Yet, he felt it still wasn't enough. With an adrenaline-fuelled confidence, he marched forwards, grabbing Francis by his pretty blond hair and setting him on his knees. Arthur knelt to gently place the Frenchman's eye on the ground, making sure Francis stared at it. With a cruel smirk, he raised his foot and stomped on it, giggling childishly at the resulting noise.</p><p>Ivan smiled softly as the noise in the room drastically increased. He stood from his seat, making his way over to where Arthur stood, staring dead-eyed at Francis, listening to his pathetic whimpering and screaming. Ivan tapped on Arthur's shoulder, offering a gloved hand for Arthur to take. The Englishman accepted, and the two simply walked out of the meeting room, leaving the panicked yelling behind.</p><p>No-one stopped them from leaving.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Francis probably needs his eye back. Not that it'll work, but oh well.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>